


Allston Christmas

by Gruoch



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aging, Family Bonding, Future Fic, Gen, Growing Pains, MIT, abuse of superpowers, college move-in day, evolving parent-child relationship, off-campus living, spoiler free, sweaty bickering, terrible Boston parking, totally ignores canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 20:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19753285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gruoch/pseuds/Gruoch
Summary: “You guys didn’t have to do this,” Peter says from where he sits squeezed into the middle seat of the U-Haul, sweat running down his back. The air-conditioning in the truck they’ve rented is broken, and even with the windows rolled down it’s hellishly hot inside. “Really. I could have handled it myself.”“We wanted to,” Tony replies as he blasts the horn at a minivan with a “Harvard Mom” bumper sticker that is attempting to cut into his lane. “It’s like a little trip down memory lane. It’s nostalgic—it’s gonna be fun. Right, Rhodey?”“Absolutely,” Rhodey agrees, with all the enthusiasm of a man being lead to the gallows.





	Allston Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sagemb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagemb/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Allston Christmas 奥斯顿圣诞节](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977298) by [hollisonya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollisonya/pseuds/hollisonya)



> Giant shout-out to sagemb, without whose hand-holding through weeks of writer's block this story would not exist. May all your future move-ins go more smoothly than this one. You're gonna kill it out there.
> 
> "Allston Christmas" refers to September 1st in Boston, the day that a huge number of leases turn over in the city and thousands of students move into and out of rentals across the area in a chaotic frenzy of moving trucks, terrible traffic, abandoned furniture, and at least one idiot crashing their U-Haul into the bridge on Storrow Drive.

“You guys didn’t have to do this,” Peter says from where he sits squeezed into the middle seat of the U-Haul, sweat running down his back. The air-conditioning in the truck they’ve rented is broken, and even with the windows rolled down it’s hellishly hot inside. “Really. I could have handled it myself.”

“We wanted to,” Tony replies as he blasts the horn at a minivan with a “Harvard Mom” bumper sticker that is attempting to cut into his lane. “It’s like a little trip down memory lane. It’s nostalgic—it’s gonna be fun. Right, Rhodey?”

“Absolutely,” Rhodey agrees, with all the enthusiasm of a man being lead to the gallows—or a man who’s spent the last five hours crammed into the sweltering cab of a U-Haul truck. “Although I’m still not sure why you didn’t just have all this furniture shipped directly to the apartment.”

“It’s a bonding experience,” Tony insists.

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “Marie Antoinette used to dress up and pretend to be a milkmaid. _That_ is what this is. You’re cosplaying as a middle-aged dad.”

“I _am_ a middle-aged dad.”

“You know what I mean,” Rhodey says. “An _average_ middle-aged dad. That’s why you insisted on driving the truck even though you’re terrible at it.”

“Oh, you think you can do better?”

“Well. Anyway,” Peter butts in a little desperately. “I really appreciate this. I guess.”

He leans forward and attempts to peel his shirt away from his sweaty back, fanning himself with his baseball cap. It’s a brand new hat and a brand new shirt, both printed with the MIT seal on the front, gifted to him the night before. Rhodey and Tony are also wearing the exact same shirt, because Tony finds the whole matching family outfits thing enormously amusing—or at least, he finds Peter’s obvious embarrassment with the whole thing enormously amusing.

Tony presses a water bottle into Peter’s hands. “Stay hydrated, buddy. You know you’re gonna be doing the bulk of the heavy lifting. Me and Rhodey are old, broke-down men. We’re really just on board for the moral support.”

“Speak for yourself. I can still run a six-minute mile,” Rhodey says.

“Let me hear you bragging when you’re attempting to carry a refrigerator up a flight of stairs in an un-air-conditioned building in ninety-degree heat.”

“Tony, I guarantee you’re gonna be the first one to start complaining. You’ve never moved house yourself in your life.”

“What are you talking about? I helped move into our first off-campus apartment when we were at MIT,” Tony protests, laying on the truck’s horn again. 

Rhodey shakes his head. “No—no, no. You offered to buy me and a couple of other guys as much beer as we wanted in exchange for moving everything. Then you ended up drinking most of it yourself while we busted ass all day, _and_ you threw up all over the new couch my mother bought us.”

“I don’t remember any of that going down that way,” Tony says doubtfully.

“Of course you don’t remember it—you were completely wasted the whole day. Trust me—you’ll be hiring professional movers before noon.”

“I can move the heavy stuff, it’s okay,” Peter interjects before the argument can spiral further. “Take this next left. The apartment’s on that street.”

Tony makes the turn, pulling the truck behind a line of other U-Hauls stretching the length of the block.

Rhodey lets out a low whistle as they inch past towers of dirty mattresses and furniture in varying stages of destroyed that are piled on the sidewalk. “This looks...apocalyptic.”

“Yeah, I don’t remember it being quite such a free-for-all in our day,” Tony agrees, frowning.

Rhodey scoffs. “You don’t remember shit—”

Peter leans forward between the two of them and points. “That’s the house there. The blue one with the porch.”

“That’s where you’re gonna live?” Tony asks, looking at the rundown house with something close to horror on his face. “This place looks like it has bodies buried in the basement. It looks like it should be condemned.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. It’s just not a penthouse on the Upper East Side like you’re used to.”

“Seriously, how am I supposed to sleep at night knowing you’re living in this hovel,” Tony says as the truck slowly creeps forward through the press of traffic and people. “Pete, if you’d just let me help you out with rent, you could get a nice little place in Kendall Square right near campus.”

“I don’t want you to help me out. I want to have as _normal_ a college experience as possible, alright? This is how normal college students live.”

“And by normal people I’m assuming you mean meth addicts and human traffickers.”

“Tony, leave him alone,” Rhodey cuts in. “It’s good for him to learn to stand on his own two feet.” He claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I’m real proud of you, Pete. Your first apartment—that’s a big deal.”

“Thanks. It’s gonna make my life a little less stressful, hopefully,” Peter says. “Trying to sneak back into the dorms at night with like a gunshot wound or something was a real pain.”

Tony nearly rear-ends the truck in front of them. “ _When_ were you sneaking into your dorm with a gunshot wound?”

“I—never. It was just—a hypothetical,” Peter says quickly. “People have already figured out that Spider-Man is a college student at one of the Boston-area schools—I’m just saying it will be easier to keep the whole Spider-Man thing a secret when I’m not living on a hall with thirty other people. That’s all.”

Tony gives him a long, hard look. “If you’re lying to me...”

“Let it go, man,” Rhodey begs. “I’ve got to get out of this truck. Find a place to park this thing and let’s get this done.”

“We’re gonna chat about this later, you and I,” Tony tells Peter darkly, before perking up again. “Hey, it’s our lucky day—there’s a spot open right in front of your serial killer house.”

“I bought a parking permit for a spot down at the end of the block,” Peter says. “Ned should have put up the signs already. Just park there.”

“This is right next to the house, and anyway none of these assholes are paying attention to parking permits. I guarantee someone’s in your spot already,” Tony says, unbuckling his seatbelt to make it easier to look behind the truck. 

“You’ll get a ticket,” Peter points out.

“Who cares?”

Peter makes a disgusted noise. “I dunno, like the ninety-nine-percent of people in this country who aren’t absurdly wealthy?”

Tony pats him on the knee. “Well, good thing you’re riding shotgun with a one-percenter, right?” 

“Okay, unjust class inequality aside—this is a ten-foot long truck,” Rhodey says. “There’s a reason no one else has parked their U-Haul there.”

“Yeah, because they’re cowards with shitty driving skills,” Tony replies. He leans across Peter and Rhodey to open the passenger door. “C’mon, Rhodey, be a darling and go spot me.”

“I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time,” sighs Rhodey, but he gets out of the truck anyway and goes to stand on the curb.

“Okay, kid, I’m about to blow your socks off with my parallel parking skills,” Tony tells Peter as he pulls up alongside the car parked in front of the empty space.

Peter looks out the window with a dubious expression. “I’m pretty sure a U-Haul truck handles a little differently from a Porsche.”

“God, the two of you are such doubting Thomases,” Tony complains, throwing the truck into reverse and backing into the space. “Have a little faith. How are we looking, papa bear?”

“Tony, you’re not gonna fit,” Rhodey warns.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before, but a lot of lube and a little patience always gets the job done,” Tony replies, putting the truck back into drive.

“Oh my god,” Peter groans, covering his face with his hands and sliding down in the seat. “Please don’t say things like that in front of my roommates’ parents, okay? Ned’s mom is like hardcore Catholic and Rahul’s parents are dentists from Connecticut. They live in the _suburbs._ ”

“What, you don’t think dentists get a little frisky out there in the suburbs? What else is there to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I just want you to pretend to be normal and not a rich old weirdo for a few hours.”

“Lordie, you are the most uptight person I know,” Tony says, straightening the truck out and making another attempt at backing it in. “Little friendly advice—remember what I said about the lube and patience, pal. It might really help you out one day. You’ll be thanking me.”

“Oh my god,” Peter moans again, sinking further into the seat. “Someone kill me. This was a mistake.”

“Tony, seriously,” Rhodey calls out from the sidewalk. “Is your spatial awareness failing in your old age? You need at least three more feet to back that truck in without hitting anything.”

“My spatial awareness is impeccable, thank you. It’s telling me that there is plenty of space to fit this U-Haul. We just gotta get a little creative.” Tony nudges Peter. “Alright, help me out. You can lift this thing, right?”

“I mean, yeah, I can, but—”

“So get out and lift it into the spot.”

Peter stares at Tony like the man’s grown a second head. “You want me to do _what_ now?”

“I want you to perform one of your astonishing feats of strength by lifting the truck and placing it in that parking spot.” 

Peter looks from Tony to the crowd of people bustling around on the sidewalk. “Are you nuts? I can’t just pick up an entire U-Haul truck here. I’ll be seen. I’m not gonna blow my cover because you refuse to park a few spots further down the street.”

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “If you lift one bumper at at time and sidle it in no one will even notice. C’mon. It’s not about the distance now—it’s the principle of the thing. I can’t let Rhodey think he’s right.”

“I knew I shoulda moved alone,” Peter mutters.

“Hey, one more thing,” Tony says as he puts his own MIT branded baseball cap on. “How’s my disguise? Do I look like an average middle-aged dad? Maybe a dentist from a Connecticut suburb?”

Peter looks him over. “You look like Tony Stark in a baseball hat with a week-old beard.”

Tony blows a raspberry at him. “You’re just too familiar with me in my natural state. The plebs are used to seeing me on TV in a pound of makeup and an Armani suit. I’ll blend right in.” He opens his door and steps down from the truck. “Okay, kid—go prove me right.”

“Ugh,” Peter replies, sliding across the seat and hopping down from the truck.

“This never gets old for me,” Tony says as he walks over to stand beside Rhodey. “Look at him go—it’s like having a Pomeranian with the strength of a gorilla.”

“I can hear you,” Peter says, lifting the truck’s rear bumper and shifting it over to the curb, and then doing the same to the front.

“See?” Tony says smugly, elbowing Rhodey in the side. “The truck fits. Just like I said it would.”

“Okay, Mr. Genius. Now explain how you’re gonna get the furniture out the back when you got that in the way,” Rhodey says, gesturing to the car parked inches away from the truck’s rear bumper.

Tony looks at the car, rubbing his chin. Then he turns to Peter. “Okay, move the car now.”

“This really was a mistake,” Peter says, his shoulders sagging in resignation.

***

“This was a mistake,” Peter says again an hour or so later, shifting the dresser he and Tony are attempting to carry up the stairs to the third story apartment to one hand so that he can wipe sweat out of his eyes with the other. The stairwell is narrow and stiflingly hot and smells strongly of old cat piss, and they’ve been stuck for what feels like an eternity just below the landing where the staircase makes a sharp ninety-degree turn.

“You’re right. We’re still going about this wrong,” Tony says from the other side of the dresser, wiping his own face off on his shoulder. “We’re never gonna get around the corner at the landing like this. Let’s try tipping it the other way—no, horizontally. Lift with your legs or you're gonna hurt yourself.”

“Mr. Stark, I can bench press a school bus. I think I’ll be okay,” Peter says with fraying patience. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

“What? You think I’m gonna keel over just from carrying a dresser? I’m not _that_ old.”

“No, but we’ve been stuck in this stairwell for like half an hour and it’s two million degrees in here, and I really love you, Mr. Stark, I do,” Peter says, his voice breaking a little, “but if we don’t get this thing upstairs in the next two minutes, I seriously think I’m gonna have to kill you.”

“Okay, relax. No one needs to die today,” Tony soothes. “I know we’ve had some false starts, and that was my fault, I can admit that, but I’ve got this figured out now, I promise. It’s a matter of math, really, and we’re great at math. We just need to angle the dresser up a little. Give me like a thirty-degree incline, bud. There you go. Onward and upward.”

They manage a few more steps, the dresser scraping some of the paint from the ceiling before becoming wedged tight between the walls again.

“Okay, twenty-five degrees,” Tony amends. He looks at Peter over the top of the dresser. “Are you even letting me carry any of the weight? This feels suspiciously light for a solid wood dresser.”

Peter shakes his head, his mouth tight. “No. I’m scared you’ll hurt yourself.”

“So you just said you’re ready to kill me, but god forbid I pull a muscle, is that it? ‘Cause the only thing hurting right now is my pride,” Tony says. “Could you at least give me the illusion that my presence here matters? You’re emasculating me, Petey.”

“Oh my god,” Peter groans. He adjusts his hold on the dresser, letting more of the weight fall on Tony’s side. “How’s that? Heavy enough for you?”

“Yeah, maybe a little less weight,” Tony says through clenched teeth, straining. “I’m an old man and my left arm is basically useless from all the nerve damage.”

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Peter huffs, pulling the dresser back. “Just let me carry it, alright? We could be done already if you’d just let me carry everything myself.”

“It’s not about the weight,” Tony argues. “This is an issue of architectural design. It requires finesse and careful planning. You can’t just haul this dresser through this stairwell willy-nilly, unless you want to scratch the hell out of the walls and your dresser. This is the one nice piece of furniture you own. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Okay, well, your _finesse_ and _careful planning_ have been complete garbage so far. I can't do this any longer. I'm just gonna carry it up from the outside,” Peter says with a touch of desperation. “I can climb up the back wall. Ned’s room has a balcony door. I’ll bring it in through there.”

“What about your precious secret identity you were just crying about an hour ago?”

“I don’t care anymore. Let everyone in Boston know I’m Spider-Man, whatever, it doesn’t matter. I just have to get this done now before I can no longer resist the urge to _murder_ you,” Peter says raggedly.

“Do you need to stop and drink an orange juice or something?” Tony asks, concerned. “You’re very tetchy right now, like your blood sugar is low.”

Peter makes a strangled sound.

“Just murder him, kid,” Rhodey says, coming up behind them with a box in his arms. “Put us all out of our misery.”

“Have I mentioned lately what a great friend you are?” Tony asks him. “Really loving and devoted.”

Rhodey ignores him, setting his box down on a step. “Alright, children. Playtime’s over. Tony, move over as far as you can to the left. Pete—lift your end about six inches. Perfect. Both of you rotate the dresser about ten degrees clockwise. Now start moving. Tony, keep shifting to the left as you go.”

“Oh my god,” Peter breathes out in relief as they finally get the dresser around the corner at the landing. “I think I’m gonna cry for real. This is the happiest moment of my life.”

“There you go,” Rhodey says smugly. “Straight shot to the back bedroom now.”

“Where have you been all this time?” Tony asks, irritated. “We’ve been killing ourselves in this stairwell.”

“I was taking the smaller stuff up the fire escape because you two idiots had the stairs blocked,” Rhodey replies, picking up the box again. “But I want to get this done before lunch, so I figured I’d come help. Good thing one of us knows how to put that MIT degree to use, huh?”

“I’m still cosplaying as an average middle-aged dad,” Tony says, trying to defend himself. “This guy doesn't have any degrees from fancy schools. The bumbling incompetence is just part of my performance. It’s very convincing, right? The kid was very convinced, weren’t you, Pete?”

Peter just gives Tony a long, hard look, his mouth still set in a tight, unhappy line.

Tony gestures to him. “See? He’s convinced. Look at that face—that’s the same ‘I hate your filthy guts’ look I used to give my old man when he’d piss me off.”

Rhodey snorts. “I don’t blame him. Okay, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber—put that thing down and let’s go grab the mattress and bed frame.”

“I _know_ that you were deliberately making that take longer than it needed to,” Peter says to Tony in a low voice as they head back down to the truck after getting the dresser situated in Peter’s room. “You were sabotaging our operation.”

“What? What are talking about?” Tony says innocently. “Why would I do that? Who in their right mind wants to spend thirty minutes trapped in a hot stairwell with a giant dresser and a little murderous mutant?”

“That’s your answer right there—you weren’t in your right mind. You were enjoying that _way_ too much. That’s not normal.”

“Okay, so—if you knew I was deliberately sabotaging things to make it take longer, why didn’t you say anything in the stairwell?” Tony asks.

That trips Peter up. “I dunno,” he replies, flustered. “Because—because you were _enjoying_ it so much.” 

“I really think you need that orange juice,” Tony says, putting an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “This heat is getting to you. It’s making you have delusions of persecution.” 

Peter lets out a long, pained sigh. “Ugh, god. Why are you like this?” 

*** 

The three of them working together manage to get the the mattress and bed frame up to the third floor without incident or further threats of murder after first taking a brief break to re-hydrate and collect themselves. They’re in the process of bringing up more boxes from the truck when they encounter another jam in the foyer of the house, where a fellow sweaty student resident and his red-faced mother are attempting to fit a large futon through the narrow doorway of the first floor apartment. 

Peter, true to form and bolstered by the orange juice that had been forced on him, immediately sets aside the box he’s carrying and goes to help, taking up the end of the futon being held by the struggling mother. 

The woman wanders over to stand beside Tony and Rhodey, weakly fanning herself with a hand and looking immensely relieved. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” she sighs as the futon successfully scrapes through the doorway. “I didn’t think we’d ever get that in. Your son is so sweet for offering to help like that. Such a polite young man. You don't see too many like that these days.” She pats Tony’s arm. “You did good, dad.” 

“Thank you. Although I can’t take all the credit for his earnest heart of gold—he’s not actually mine. I mean, he belongs with me—we’re here together. But he was already a teenager when I snatched him off the street,” Tony says. 

“Oh,” the woman says, a furrow of confusion appearing between her brows. 

“I mean, I found him on the street,” Tony explains, while Peter practically leaps back into the foyer, making frantic slashing motions across his throat with his hand. “Dumpster diving in dollar bin pajamas. The kid was in the dumpster, not me. He was going out alone in the city and getting into trouble—crime and that sort of thing—so I helped him out. We have an arrangement, where I take care of him, you know, provide financial assistance and such, and he—” 

“He’s adopted,” Rhodey interjects. 

The woman looks from Tony to Rhodey and back again, her eyes drifting over their matching MIT shirts and baseball caps. Understanding dawns on her face.

“Oh,” she says again, sounding relieved this time. “Well, I think that’s wonderful. All children deserve loving families, and families come in all shapes and sizes.” 

“Yes, exactly. It was very nice meeting you, but I guess we better be getting a move on before it gets any hotter,” Rhodey says, grabbing Tony by the elbow and firmly steering him away. 

“Dude, what the _fuck?_ What is _wrong_ with you?” Peter asks as they make their way back upstairs to his apartment. “I told you not to be weird and you like did the exact opposite! You went the _weirdest_ you could possibly go.” 

“What? What did I say that was weird?” Tony says defensively. “I was just trying to explain how we know each other.” 

“Just say that you’re a family friend or something,” Peter pleads. “Or better yet, say _nothing_ at all.” 

“I’m not a family friend,” Tony replies, putting an arm around Rhodey’s shoulders. “I’m an average middle-aged dad from Forest Hills, Queens, here with my stern but loving partner, Jim, to move our beloved adopted dumpster gremlin from the wrong side of the tracks into his new apartment.” 

Peter shakes his head, blinking in disbelief. “You’re—what?” 

“I’m making up a backstory for my character so I won't get caught off guard like that again,” Tony explains. “I was thinking at first I’d be a dentist but now I think I should go more blue collar—construction manager, maybe. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a huge nerd,” Peter tells him. “And an even bigger sadist.” 

“Hey, don’t talk to your father that way, young man, or I’ll ground your ass until your hair is as grey as mine,” Rhodey says. He turns to Tony. “How was that? I’m going for the retired military disciplinarian father angle.” 

“Oh, that was right on the money, honey,” Tony praises. “It’s got just the right scary-to-sexy ratio.” 

Peter waves a hand around his face. “Okay, this annoyance that I am expressing right now—this isn’t an act. It’s all real.” 

“Yeesh, lighten up, kid. Do you even know how to have fun?” Tony asks.

“I’ve been up since three A.M. I spent five hours in terrible traffic crammed in a hot truck with the two of you fighting the whole way. I rearranged an _entire_ block of cars and trucks and furniture in a hundred degree heat just so that you could have the parking spot you wanted,” Peter says, starting to sound slightly hysterical. “Please, Mr. Stark, I am _begging_ you—” 

Someone clears their throat behind them. They all turn as one towards the interruption. 

A girl in an MIT shirt stands in the doorway, looking a little uncomfortable as she offers them an awkward wave. 

“Hey. Um. Sorry to interrupt. I’m moving into the apartment on the floor below, and my roommate has this piano she’s trying to get up the stairs,” she says. “Could one of you maybe give us a hand?” 

“I’ll give you a whole person,” Tony says, grabbing Peter by the shoulders and pushing him forward.

The girl looks Peter over doubtfully. “Uh, yeah. It’s a _really_ heavy piano.” 

“Don’t let his bite-sized frame fool you—he’s a lot stronger than he looks,” Tony assures her. “He’s really smart, too. Would you believe we found him in a dumpster, and now he’s at MIT?” 

“Wow. That’s…cool,” the girl replies with a hesitant, forced smile. 

“He’s just joking,” Peter says quickly, shrugging out from under Tony’s hands and shooting him a murderous look. “Or going senile. It’s hard to say. But yeah, I can help you. However long it takes. The longer the better.” 

“Awesome. Thanks. I guess. Um, this way,” the girl says, turning and heading for the stairs. 

“ _Stop_ telling people you found me in a dumpster,” Peter hisses at Tony once she’s out of earshot. 

“I just gave you a beautiful, inspiring introduction to your cute neighbor. Did you see her MIT shirt? Eh? You’re welcome,” Tony says.

“You are so—” Peter cuts himself off, letting out an exasperated noise. “Sometimes I wish that you had just left me alone to live in my dumpster in peace.” 

“Oh, hey—there you go, finally getting into character,” Tony says, delighted. “Don’t forget to slam the door on your way out. Really sell it. Can I also maybe get a ‘I hate you, dad, and wish I’d never been born’? Please?” 

“No. I refuse to give you the pleasure,” Peter says as he leaves, very deliberately shutting the door softly behind him. 

“I have a good feeling about that. Couple of awkward nerds—they’re gonna get on great. I’m calling it now,” Tony tells Rhodey. “They better name their firstborn after me.”

“If you’re done playing matchmaker, why don’t you get down here and help me put this bed frame together,” Rhodey says, opening the toolbox he’s brought upstairs and digging around in it for a couple of wrenches. “Unless you’d rather keep hauling boxes upstairs?” 

“Bed frame first. I can’t bear the thought of the kid having to sleep on a mattress on the floor in this dump. Rats might eat his face or something,” Tony says, kneeling down and snatching one of the wrenches out of Rhodey’s hand. 

Rhodey snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you are entirely motivated out of concern for the kid. Doesn’t have anything to do with you avoiding real work now that you’ve given away our muscle.” 

“Everything I do is for the kids,” Tony insists. “I’m very devoted to these little gremlins. But yes, that is an excellent point—if we take our time with putting this bed frame together, Pete will be back before we have to carry anything heavy ourselves. I think we’ve earned that.” 

*** 

They’ll never admit to it, but it takes them an embarrassingly long time for a pair of MIT grads with engineering degrees to put the bed frame together, even without deliberate sabotage. 

“Do these furniture manufacturers even consider usability during their design process?” Tony huffs as he tightens the final bolt on the frame. “I mean, what are these instructions? This is shameful.” 

“Completely shameful,” Rhodey agrees. He clambers stiffly to his feet and glances at his watch. “Jesus, it’s already lunchtime. Where did Peter go?” 

“He’s not coming back,” Tony says, throwing himself onto the bare mattress. “We’ve been ditched for a cute co-ed. And can you blame him? We’re just a couple of old men with nothing left to offer him.” 

“I was more concerned that he’s passed out somewhere from heatstroke or something,” Rhodey says drily. “But please, continue wallowing in your narcissistic misery. I know how much you enjoy doing that.” 

“You take this sweet wide-eyed little kid under your wing and spend years busting your ass for him, shedding _literal_ blood, sweat, and tears for him and getting grey hairs faster than you can dye them,” Tony laments, “and you think he’s always gonna depend on you, always gonna need you, always gonna look up to you like you’re the biggest damn hero in the whole entire universe no matter how bad you fuck up, and then you blink and he’s all grown up and threatening to murder you in stairwells.”

“Oh, for crying out loud…If you’re this bent out of shape about Peter, I can’t wait to see how you survive with Morgan,” Rhodey says, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

“He doesn’t need my help anymore. I’m just a hindrance now. This day has been clear proof of that. But that’s just the way of it, I suppose,” Tony sighs. “That’s nature taking its course. Planned obsolescence is built into this whole parenting thing. No one tells you that when you start out, and then by the time you realize it, it’s too late. _Boom_. You wake up one day, and you’re not the guy they turn to anymore, the guy with all the answers—you’re just some useless, feeble old man who has to resort to subterfuge just to squeeze out a few more precious minutes with a kid who just wants to grow up and get away as fast as he can.” 

Rhodey rolls his eyes. “Are you done?” 

“Yeah, I’m done. I’m not over it, I’ll never be over it, but I’m done,” Tony says, sitting back up. He stretches, pops something in his spine in a satisfyingly painful manner, then looks up at Rhodey. “Hey, what do you say we hire some movers to finish the job and get out of this shithole? Maybe grab a burger and a beer? You think that joint we used to frequent when we were at MIT is still around?” 

Rhodey jabs a finger at him. “A-ha! See? I told you you’d be hiring professional movers before noon, and I was right.” 

“Nope. Wrong again, pal,” Tony says, getting to his feet and slinging an arm over Rhodey’s shoulders. “According to my watch, it’s five after.” 

“Oh, give me a break,” Rhodey says, shoving Tony’s arm off. “I should have let Pete murder you in the stairwell this morning.” 

***  
In a fit of generosity, Tony decides to hire professional movers to help every resident on the block, as well as a clean-up crew to haul away the mounds of discarded furniture. He and Rhodey return from an extended lunch to a much quieter, cleaner little neighborhood. It is almost, Tony could grudgingly admit, charming in a slightly rustic way, if you ignored the broken windows and rotting roofs. 

“Why don’t you see if the kid’s back,” Rhodey says once their Uber has dropped them off in front of Peter’s apartment. “I’ll go return the U-haul and get us a rental car. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna ride home in that truck.” 

“Yeah. Make sure you get a ride with working air conditioning,” Tony agrees, before heading back inside the house.

He finds Peter sitting on the floor in his room surrounded by boxes. The kid looks up when Tony walks in, his expression contrite. 

“Well, well, look who’s back,” Tony says, offering Peter a takeout box. “I brought you a burger and fries." 

“Thanks. I ate already with Ned and his parents,” Peter replies, taking the box anyway. “Sorry I was gone for so long. Did you guys move all this stuff in yourselves?” 

“We did,” Tony confirms. “Every single box. It was hard work, but we got it done, even without your help. What happened to you, anyway—did you get lost?” 

“Well, I was helping Gwen—” 

“Gwen?” 

“My downstairs neighbor with the piano.” 

“Oh,” Tony says, raising his eyebrows. “ _Gwen._ ” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes. Gwen. Okay? Anyway—I was helping her and I may have, you know, abused my powers a little—” 

“You showed off for your cute neighbor, you mean.” 

“I didn’t show off,” Peter splutters. “I just. Helped. Really well. For altruistic reasons—unlike you and your stupid parking spot.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Yeah. And I guess the guys across the street noticed, ‘cause they asked me to help them move their billiards table, and then next thing I know three hours have passed and I’ve moved like five other people into their apartments. Sorry,” Peter says again, looking genuinely regretful. “I know you wanted to do this together." 

“That’s alright,” Tony assures him, unable to help smiling a little. “I like that you’re maintaining your whole friendly neighborhood Spider-Man thing here in Boston—even when you’re not suited up. They’re lucky to have you, kid. And anyway,” he adds, “there is absolutely no way in hell I’m letting you renew your lease for this dump. Don’t even try to argue with me—I’ll buy this place and tear it down around your ears if I have to. So I’ll be back next September to help you move again.” 

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Peter says, returning his smile. 

“Great.” Tony raps his knuckles against the dresser that had foiled them so badly earlier that day. “I guess I should let you get unpacked and settled. You need anything else before Rhodey and I head out? Groceries? An air-conditioning unit?” He looks around the room, at the peeling wall paint and uneven floorboards. “A whole new apartment?" 

“I’m good. Just—can I maybe just get a sappy goodbye hug before you go?” Peter asks. “Or are you cosplaying as a manly handshake kind of average middle-aged dad? I’ll even take a shoulder punch, but only if you really commit and call me something stupid like slugger or champ while you do it.” 

“I’m cosplaying as an average middle-aged dad who’s very comfortable with his masculinity, and who's been through several solid years of therapy to learn how to become more emotionally available, so of course you can have a sappy goodbye hug,” Tony replies, opening his arms and motioning to Peter. “C’mon, bring it in.” 

“Awesome, what a cool, healthy guy. Top-notch role model material. We stan,” Peter says, gathering Tony into a bone-crushing embrace. 

“That’s a good thing, right? I’ve been trying to avoid learning more youth lingo now that you’re in college and not around as much to force it on me.”

“Yeah, it’s really good. It’s basically like saying you’re my biggest hero that I'm gonna look up to always and forever,” Peter explains. “Thanks for helping me move in. I had a lot of fun.” 

It takes Tony a moment to respond to that, both because Peter is squeezing him hard enough to displace some internal organs and because Tony finds that he is suddenly choked up, a lump lodged tight in his throat. “Really? I thought I was annoying you any time we were together. I distinctly remember death threats.” 

“You were,” Peter confirms, squeezing Tony even tighter. “You were so annoying and a complete embarrassment. I’m pretty sure I’m scarred for life. And I really, really appreciate it.” 

“Well, any time you need to be publicly humiliated, I’m here for you. That’s how you really nail the authentic average middle-aged dad thing. Sixty-percent of fatherhood is just mortifying your children. You get bonus points for doing it in front of an audience.” 

“Wow, I feel terrible for Morgan. She has so many years ahead of her to endure that.” 

“It’s healthy. It’s character building,” Tony says. “Don’t you feel like you have a lot more character after all these years you spent hanging around with me?” 

Peter shrugs. “I guess. Character. Mild trauma. New anxieties I didn’t have before we met.” 

“Alright, you sarcastic little shit,” Tony says, digging his thumb into Peter’s ribs. “You’ll realize I’m right in another decade or so.” 

“Sure,” Peter says dubiously.

There’s a long stretch of silence where they do nothing but hold each other amidst the cardboard moving boxes. 

“Not that I’m complaining or anything, but this is a really long hug,” Peter says finally. 

“Well, I’m not sure when I’m gonna see you again,” Tony says, still not letting go. “Really gotta make sure this one sticks to your ribs. And I’m starting to feel like we’ve reached the point where hugs are the only thing I have left to give you, so I better make it a good one. You’re growing up so fast and I can’t keep up with you anymore.” 

“That's not true,” Peter insists, giving Tony another squeeze. “But even if it was, hugs would be plenty. I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow them. It’s impossible. I mean, look—we’re at optimal hugging height to each other now,” he adds, resting his chin on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s not like I’m gonna grow anymore. I’m pretty sure this is my full, slightly disappointing adult height. So we’re good.” 

“Oh, that’s a real relief,” Tony says, returning the squeeze. “Feels good to know I’m not completely useless. Not that you ever come home anymore to visit so I can give you a hug, of course…” 

“Jeez, you’re worse than May with the guilt-tripping,” Peter complains. “I’ll come home for fall break, okay? I promise.” 

“No, no. I get it. You’re busy with your own life and everything, and—I’m just really proud of you, kid,” Tony says, squeezing him harder. “That’s all. God, I’m one lucky asshole, finding you in that dumpster in your pajamas.” 

“Okay, but that’s not _really_ what happened.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Tony says firmly. “It’s family lore now.” 

He reluctantly releases Peter and pats his cheek. “Alright. Studying comes before Spider-Man-ing, don’t do hard drugs, don’t drink and drive, always use a condom. Anything else I’m forgetting?” 

“I think that pretty much covers everything,” Peter says. 

“Great.” Tony briefly grips Peter’s shoulder. “See you during fall break, kid. I’m holding you to that.” 

“I’ll be there,” Peter promises. “I mean, barring like, some kind of alien invasion or evil villain hellbent on world domination or massive crime spree in the area during that time.” 

“Right, right. I know. I understand. Great power, great responsibility, yada yada yada,” Tony says with an exaggerated sigh, turning to leave before Peter can see the very real regret etched in his face. He blows a kiss and waves a hand over his shoulder as he passes through the doorway. “Bye, kid.” 

“Bye, Mr. Stark." 

Tony gets three steps into the hallway, stops, and goes back to the door. He pops his head back around the frame. “One last thing—are you _absolutely_ sure you want to live here? Because I’d be more than happy to buy you a nice condo in Cambridge.” 

“I’m sure, Mr. Stark. Really,” Peter replies, offering a reassuring smile. “I’m good." 

“Of course you are. You’re always good,” Tony says, shrugging. “But you know I still have to ask, right? You’re never gonna outgrow that, either.” 

Peter sighs, but his expression is both pleased and amused. “Yep. Bye again, Mr. Stark.” 

“See ya, slugger.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://groo-ock.tumblr.com/)


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